All We Shall Know For Truth
by Ruadhnait
Summary: This is the way the damned love. A fantasy on a theme by Yeats, told in six vignettes.


"Wine comes in at the mouth

And love comes in at the eye

That's all we shall know for truth

Before we grow old and die.

I lift my glass to my lips

I look at you, and I sigh."

-William Butler Yeats, _A Drinking Song_

**I. Wine comes in at the mouth**

He drinks.

Drinks deep, like he's never tasted wine before. He drains his cup, then sets it down with a faint clink of metal on stone. The torchlight shows too clearly the strange glint in his eyes, the feverish pallor of his face.

"Leave me," he says to his attendant, roughly, and the boy nods quickly and hurries away, eyes on the ground.

Celegorm leans back in his chair, running his fingers through his hair distractedly. He closes his eyes briefly, then opens them suddenly. In the dim light, he had not noticed Luthien. She is seated at the far end of the room, sitting quietly, demurely, like a carven angel or an image in one of Vaire's tapestries. Her black hair falls in a continuous ripple, half obscuring her face. Celegorm studies her carefully, observing with cool detachment the contours of her Sindarin face, the flawlessness of her porcelain skin, the way her hands are folded in her lap, white, slender, and cool as moonwashed lilies.

The boy is at his side again, refilling his cup. Celegorm draws his gaze away from Luthien and makes as if to reprimand his servant, but then nods in approval. He reaches for his glass again, lifts it to his lips, but does not drink, not yet, turning his eyes back to Luthien, who is not yet aware of him. He shakes his cup a little, watching the wine swirl and spin, watching the way it reflects the light. Its surface is dark, very dark, with no light piercing its depths, yet a slight sheen trembles on the glassy surface.

He drinks again, and makes no attempt this time to mask his pleasure. The taste of the stuff is sweet, very sweet, and sweeter than what he is accustomed to, yet it is not unpleasant at all. _Not unpleasant at all_, he muses, savoring the sweet and yet somehow dark and bitter taste. There is a definite edge of bitterness to it, he observes, a definite edge.

Celegorm rises suddenly, and Luthien starts in surprise, raising her grey eyes, those eyes of clear grey like a stream in the sunlight. He reaches down, and finishes the wine, savoring that sweet and bitter darkness, keeping his eyes trained on her constantly.

**II. And love comes in at the eye**

He has had his share of women.

There were some in Valinor, he remembers, some high-born, beautiful princesses and ladies of the court, many that had hopes of winning him (as a son of Feanor, he had been considered a rare prize among the nobles of Tirion) and yet those women now ceased to be anything to him but a memory of forgettable prettiness, of swishing skirts and flowing hair and bright eyes, their individual faces and characters one great blur. Others were commoners, like his mother Nerdanel had been, and these he found slightly more interesting, but only a very little. They came mostly from the country surrounding Tirion and near Alqualonde. They were wide-eyed, guileless creatures, too enthralled by him to be remotely charming, or interesting.

They, too, passed him by.

Maglor married a girl from Alqualonde, he recalls, a shy, silver-haired creature half Telerin and half Noldorin who somehow mustered the courage and the impudence to follow him into exile. Celegorm never cared for her much- her sweet and unassuming naïveté became tiresome very quickly- but Maglor adored her, and she worshipped him, and they alone of all the Feanorians had the marriage bearing any semblance to normality. They were both minstrels, and they sang for each other all the day long, like a pair of sweet-throated birds.

He has not known anything like that, ever. He knows he never will.

And yet, there are times…

Luthien has dropped her gaze to her lap again, and he turns his eyes back to her, watching her with no pretence of doing anything else. She is beautiful, beautiful like no Noldorin lady could ever hope to be. In her it seems that brilliant light and the shadows of evening have met, have formed something greater than either could be alone, with her eyes like stars, hair woven of shadow, skin like untrodden snow.

She is not for him.

He turns swiftly, and his fist crashes into the wall with a dull and echoing thud.

She is not for him.

That single thought suddenly fills him with a burning, aching anger, that she is not for him, that this daughter of the divine race is too pure and untainted to be touched by him.

He refuses to accept that.

He turns back to her, his gaze hungry.

And why not? Why should she not be his?

**III. That's all we shall know for truth**

He, too, has lived under the hand of the Valar. He knows their ways, their ways so upright, so strict, so _right_.

He was not always this.

Once he was Tyelkormo Turkafinwe son of Feanaro and Nerdanel. That was his name then, before he came to these darkened lands. He remembers a bright, laughing boy, the third son of Feanor, a boy continually haunting Orome's halls or following in the Vala's train, a boy with his hound continually by his side, a boy who harbored little, if any, ill will, as quick to anger as to forgive.

He curses under his breath. He has lost that. He left that boy behind in Valinor, slew that child in Alqualonde, abandoned him at Araman. That boy has no place here, and he knows it.

The Valar have utterly cut him off from their graces, refused him their forgiveness.

He does not regret this. He knew, of course, that such a reaction was to be expected from the Valar after the Oath and especially Alqualonde; so Curufin told him, and Curufin knew. And so he has retaliated in kind, giving the Valar little thought, if any, telling himself that he repents not at all of his decision to leave, never the Oath, not even the Kinslaying. He is quite prepared to repeat Alqualonde, and the darkness and tears that the Valar threatened have failed to appear.

The Valar have abandoned him, and shut him out from Valinor. What does he owe them that he should seek their pardon? What can they give him that he cannot gain on his own? They have abandoned him. Why should he cling to those that cast him off?

Finrod. Finrod was unfortunate, he muses. Finrod was a fool; anyone who would venture to Tol-in-Gaurhoth on a mortal's mad quest can be called little else.

He remembers his cousin quite well. He remembers the day Finrod left Nargothrond forever; remembers how he flung his crown before his brother and parted the silent crowds; remembers that fey look in his eyes, a look to rival Feanor, remember with what unflinching courage he went to his death.

That is not for him. He has lost that, long ago. He cannot regain it, not now, not anymore.

The Valar have abandoned him. Why should he then cling to those that cast him off?

**IV. Before we grow old and die**

Celegorm has seen death.

First there was Alqualonde, and the fall of his people. He remembers that first battle all too well. The white quays were stained brilliant crimson, with blood pooled in every crevice and darkening the tide-pools. The sea was angry that night, he remembers, dark like wine, dark like blood, roaring like the fury of the Gods.

He remembers it well, and the senseless pleasure he felt at cutting down Teler after Teler, watching their blood flowing like dark and bitter wine.

He reaches for his cup and drains it yet again.

Oh, Celegorm has seen death. He is Feanor's son.

He knows what awaits him.

He is standing on the edge of the utter darkness that loremasters call the Void, and that he calls the fulfillment of his oath.

_There is a sea of blood swirling around his feet, roaring, threatening to engulf him. His sword is lit with fire, and it sears into his hand, yet he cannot let go. The faces of the dead are many and bleak pressing round him, ghostly voices moaning and howling, empty eyes boring into him. The pit opens before him, and he cannot turn, cannot run, can only stand rooted to the ground while the darkness swells around him, devouring him…_

He shakes his head, hard, and rubs his palms in his eyes, trying to clear his vision.

Across the room, Luthien is watching him curiously.

He can barely suppress a snarl. In a way, he hates her, hates her luminous and unstained purity, hates her perfect virtue, and wants nothing more than to destroy that.

He knows what awaits him. He has seen Alqualonde. He is his father's son.

He will not turn back.

**V. I lift my glass to my lips**

He drinks again. The night grows late, and his attendant has retired. He and Luthien are alone, alone as they have never been before.

She grows restless. He can tell from the way she shifts in her chair, the faint sighs escaping her every now and then. And yet he knows that she dares not ask to be excused, and he feels a cruel smile playing about his lips.

He is still looking at her, his gaze intensifying, eyes burning. She wears a gown of some filmy dark blue material, perhaps more revealing than what she is accustomed to, and she tugs irritably at the neckline, in some futile attempt at modesty. His smile widens, and he keeps looking, observing the soft swell of her white breasts, the fragile fine-boned delicacy of collarbone, wrist, and ankle, the gentle curve of her hips.

She stands abruptly, pushing her hair out of her face, seeking his gaze.

"My lord, if I might be permitted to-"

He knows what she wants, whom she loves, what she is.

And he will _not let her have it_, not though the sun and moon die and the stars fall in a burning silver rain.

"No," he says, the monosyllable hoarse and rough-edged. "No." He catches her wrists and pulls her towards him. Her eyes widen, briefly, and she struggles, jerking backwards. She is stronger than he had thought, and finally she pulls free of his grasp. She backs away quickly, breathing hard, but then runs against the wall, staring at him with hunted eyes.

"Let me go," she hisses, "let me _go…_"

"No," he whispers cruelly, and leans toward her, feeling her breath very hot on his skin, reaching for the neck of her dress, tearing at the bodice…

And then he stumbles back, repulsed as though by fire.

"No," she tells him fiercely. "No."

**VI. I look at you, and I sigh**

She runs, lifting her skirts high, her free hand clutching her torn neckline. He hears a choking sob and sees her eyes bright with unshed tears.

He does not follow her.

The night grows late, and the torches tremble and flicker. They are going out, leaving him in darkness.

"No," he whispers again, his nails biting into palm. "No."

He feels a deep and unutterable weariness coming over him, and he buries his face in his hands. It is too much, too much.

He wants her, wants the unstained beauty and glory that he is now denied.

The night grows dark, and he is alone in the dying light of his torches.

So he is denied even this, he realizes, to desire well and cleanly, to have a genuine yearning for the good and beautiful that he is not.

She will be gone on the morrow, he knows, through some way, despite all his carefulness. She will find a way. She will find light in the darkness. She will be reunited with her lover.

He lost that, long ago, and there is no returning.

He raises his head. No tears come, and none will.

The night grows dark, and there will be no dawn.


End file.
